that 99 out of every hundred men would do it. The young fellow whom last night I met on Goat Island Bridge assumed a little heroism about it. I had fancied it an awful business — it’s not. It’s not a great achievement to do. And By Jupiter Omnipotent its worth ten times the peril. I had anticipated the path to have been a rocky shelf projecting out thus [small sketch here] where as it is not, but a slanting surface of broken rocks, slippery, moveable, but thus. [small sketch here] [word crossed out] I should have that most magnificent shower bath every day if I lived on the Canadian side. Return. Crossed in a crowded boat to the American side, with a regular crowd. Right across — a view, both falls. Up the awfully, tiring staircase. Parted with my sensible & pleasant companion, and to my little boarding house. Ate an enormous supper and out again. To Goat Island. After a bit of a ramble, to the tower summit where I stayed three good hours gazing out at the Cataract. How it grows on you, how great, how grand, how absorbing it is. The awe and beauty of Niagara no tongue can tell! It’s the best approach to Eternity’s image I can imagine. Nor can I essay to stomp the impressions, the strange wild imaginings the mind concieves their. How amid that vexed vortex of raging foam and thundering noise you can imagine ghostly storm spirits, rising up and up flitting and shrieking, or hovering here and there